


It's in the Differences

by strive2bhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strive2bhappy/pseuds/strive2bhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <i>Dean really realizes all that he's missed.</i> Takes place after Like a Virgin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's in the Differences

So, again, [](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/profile)[ **altruisticinteg**](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/) wants me to post fic. I wrote this as a kind of coda to Like a Virgin. It may actually be the beginning of a longer story, I don't know. 

 **Title:** It's in the Differences  
 **Rating:** PG-13, mainly for swearing  
 **Pairing:**  Incredibly brief allusions to past Sam/Dean, and a little bit of UST for Sam/Dean now  
 **Summary:**   _Dean really realizes all that he's missed._ Takes place after Like a Virgin.  
 **A/N:**  See, [](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/profile)[ **altruisticinteg**](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/) is an enabler. She really is. She's a cheerleader and supportive and that's so awesome, but it results in me posting fic that may or may not be ready to post. I'm serious. I'm not sure what this is. 

 

It's something undeniably dumb that Dean can't even remember saying, but between one blink and the next, he hears Sam's choppy little giggle and the fit starts. 

  


His brother's slumped against one of the dismantled husks of a car in Bobby's scrap yard, laughing. Full and solid and real and complete and suddenly, the worries of whatever the dragons are raising and every other goddamn thing in Dean's life pale in comparison to the sound of Sam's unchecked, genuine laughter. 

  


A warmth builds in the pit of Dean's stomach and he goads Sam with everything he has -- fingers in his side, utterly stupid jokes that weren't even funny when he was a kid, ridiculous faces -- anything he's got to get it to continue. 

  


Sam's wiping tears and gripping his side and gasping, "Stop, dude. Stop."

  


Joy bubbles up Dean's spine -- bright and effervescent and pure for the first time in so long, he can't even remember. 

  


Something slots inside Dean and it feels right, like he can actually, fully breathe again. Finally. 

  


****

  


They're seven days outside of South Dakota in some dump of a motel room and Dean wakes in the middle of the night, unsure why. It takes him a few seconds to place where he is, to remember, and his chest expands on an inhale, deep and satisfying. 

  


And he hears it. The tiny, soft snuffling sounds from the bed next to his. Sam's snoring. That ludicrous, at one point in time irritating noise, that's half from his nose and half from his throat and Dean's eyes sting and he has to blink back the wetness. 

  


Stupid to get all sentimental over Sam's dumbass snoring, but he didn't realize he'd missed it. He didn't realize how soothing the sound really is. He didn't realize he'd have given anything in the past year and a half just for one night with his brother's rasping breath as the background noise. 

  


It takes every ounce of Dean's willpower not to crawl in next to Sam, just to be closer. They had stopped that years ago and Dean had convinced himself it was for the best. 

  


But in that crappy motel in the middle of the country, he grits his teeth and fights his body and battles a fresh wave of inappropriate want and it's a long time before he falls back to sleep. 

  


****

  


The salt-and-burn in Arizona is simple, almost inanely so, and Dean steps out of the shower, t-shirt and threadbare pajama pants clinging to his still slightly wet skin and he finds Sam sitting on the edge of the mattress, clearly ready for sleep, but still as a stone. 

  


The big brother vibe hits him square in the chest and he stops himself from rushing over in a burst of objectionable coddling. Instead, he makes as much noise as he can, tossing clothes and bottles and razors all around the counter. All to no avail. 

  


Unable to quell the worry, Dean walks up to his brother, snaps his fingers in Sam's face. "Hey, wake up there princess. How about seeing what you can find on whatever passes for cable in this backwoods town and we can--"

  


He's cut off when Sam grabs his wrist in warm fingers. 

  


"I remember," Sam whispers. 

  


Dean never thought a person's blood could actually run cold -- figured it was just a literary device or some such shit -- but goddamn if he doesn't feel ice congeal in his veins at those two, quiet words. He braces as though for a battle -- one he knows he'll never win -- and thinks, childishly, _no fair, we didn't get enough time_. 

  


Sam turns his head, makes eye contact, and Dean's not sure if he's grateful or even more freaked out that Sam doesn't look nearly as stricken as he probably should. 

  


"I remember how I beat him," Sam continues, voice still subdued and hushed. 

  


Dean blinks, suddenly adrift, feeling like he knew where he was going only to end up in a completely different place. Relief and confusion and misunderstanding vie for the top spot. Relief wins.

  


"How I got control back," Sam says, grip on Dean's wrist loosening, eyes traveling up Dean's arm to his face. 

  


Dean's frozen in place, contradictory emotions shuddering through him, utterly caught up in Sam, his orbit, his words, _Sam_. 

  


"It was just a split second. All I really needed," Sam sounds like he's reciting a play or book -- something that happened to someone else. "I saw you and the Impala and just….everything. Us."

At the last word, Sam's face comes alive with all of it -- their shared history, childhood, home -- and his eyes get a little wet and he asks, "Why were you even there?" 

  


Dean shrugs, wholly confused by the question. "Where else would I have been?"

  


Sam huffs a disbelieving sound. "Having a beer? Banging a chick? Having your last hurrah?"

  


Dean steps back, breaks the physical contact, affronted. "Seriously? That's what you think I'd do?" 

  


"You had to know there wasn't a hell of a lot of hope, Dean. Lucifer had me by the balls." 

  


Frowning, Dean says, "So I just throw up my hands and give up?" He sits on the opposite bed. "Christ, Sammy, come on. I know you know me better than that."

Sam ducks his head, letting his bangs fall into his face, but Dean can see the corner of his lips lift. "Still, after everything I've…you know, done. To you. And…everyone. You probably should have found a better way to spend your last minutes on earth."

Dean hears the unspoken _I'm not worth it_ that colors Sam's words and feels the rift, that goddamn hole that's been between them since…he shakes his head, done with this bullshit. He takes a breath, gearing up for what he knows he has to say, what he can't hide behind the _no chick flick moments_ mantra he lives by. 

  


"Look, Sam, we got alotta crap between us, you and me. I'm not denying that. But we're still us and when push shoves, even if we fuck up, we're still gonna be there for each other. That's never gonna change."

Sam looks up, shakes the hair out of his eyes, a hopeful expression on his face. "Yeah?"

  


"Hell yeah, little brother. You gotta remember that, okay? No matter what. You're gonna have me, whether you want it or not. I'm always gonna be there, okay?" Dean shivers a little, a sense of something prophetic in the air around them and he realizes he's never wanted Sam to understand him more. His stomach hurts at the thought of a future where he can't reach his brother because the wall's gone and Sam's locked inside his own head, his memories, his torment. "You hearing me? You gotta know that."

  


Sam blinks rapidly, breath shaky. "Okay."

  


"We on the same page here?"

  


"Yeah, Dean," Sam's voice is thick. "We are."

  


Dean nods and grins. "Okay. 'Sides, it was the one thing those douchebag angels weren't counting on, you know? Thought they could break us."

  


Sam's answering smile is wobbly. 

  


Dean claps his brother on the knee and stands up to get the bottle of whisky he'd brought in from the car with a muttered, "Dumbasses." 

  


Sam exhales a little laugh behind him and Dean can still feel eyes on his back as he pours himself a drink. 

  


"I remember what I -- what he did to you, Dean," Sam whispers. "I just -- I'm so sorry I couldn't have gotten a hold of him sooner."

Dean takes a swallow, burning liquid warming him for the fact that Sam apparently wants to continue this conversation. Dean turns and leans against the desk, crosses his feet at the ankles. "It's okay, Sammy."

  


Sam's eyes drop to the floor. "It's really not."

Dean's next gulp is a bit bigger and he says, "Dude, you pulled off an eleventh-hour save-the-world hail Mary. Just. Stop with the guilt."

  


Sam pulls his legs up onto the bed and starts picking at the frayed hem of his sweatpants. "What about what Cas told me about this past year?"

  


Dean shrugs, even though Sam can't see it, watches his brother's fingers meticulously plucking at threads. "What about it?"

  


"I shouldn't feel bad about that, either?" Sam asks softly. 

  


"It wasn't you," Dean states. Again. Knows that he'll keep saying it until the people around him believe it. 

  


Sam takes a breath so deep, his shoulders look like billows and he's quiet for a while while Dean drinks. When he finally does speak, Dean almost doesn't catch it. 

  


"It's that simple, then?"

  


Dean's starting to notice the effects of the whisky and he crosses back to the bed. "Yeah, actually. It's that simple. That guy wasn't you, Sam. Jesus. He so wasn't you. Just trust me on that one."

  


As Dean watches, he thinks Sam's likely to unravel his pants all the way to his knee if he doesn't quit soon, but he doesn't say so out loud. 

  


"What about Lisa and Ben?"

  


And isn't his brother just the question guy tonight? Wow, this caring and sharing crap is so fun. "Sam," Dean shakes his head, tone a warning. 

  


"Why didn't it work out?"

  


Dean's neck burns from more than the alcohol and he knows this isn't a topic he's going to cover tonight -- not completely certain he even has any answers to give. "You know, not that this heart-to-heart hasn't been fun and refreshing, Sam, but I'm beat. Gonna kick back with some stupid TV for a while and call it a night, okay?"

Sam nods without speaking and Dean reaches for the remote. He finds Leno and Letterman and some local news station and finally settles on a rerun of Family Guy. Sometimes cartoons are the best thing to keep reality at bay for a bit. Dean finishes his drink and chuckles from time to time, but it's only halfhearted. The absurdity works only marginally to take his mind off the issues he can still feel hanging heavy in the air. He wants the oblivion of sleep and wiggles his ass against the comforter, trying to relax his body enough to start the process. 

  


He's just thinking about getting under the covers when Sam's voice stops him. 

  


"Dean?"

  


Dean turns his head on the pillow, a little surprised to find Sam in the same position, still snagging strands from his sweatpants. Dean makes a noise of encouragement. 

  


"I missed you."

Dean's breath catches and his belly flutters and he knows that he'll never come up with a word that fits what Sam's absence was to him over the past year and a half -- technically, even longer. Instead he murmurs, "You too, Sammy."

Apparently satisfied, Sam abandons his tattered hem, digs his way under the covers of his bed and rolls over with his back to the light, the television and Dean. 

And if Dean's fingers itch to follow the lines of his brothers shoulders underneath his worn t-shirt, he resolutely ignores it and reaches for sleep. 

  


  


****

  



End file.
